


Crossed Swords

by duskodair



Series: On discovery [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, None of my Nordics are cishet - Freeform, Nordics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskodair/pseuds/duskodair
Summary: Norway looks small and weak to those who look upon him, thin and slender as he is.Denmark has felt the need to protect him for years.Maybe Norway’s not the one who needs protection when humanity discover them.





	Crossed Swords

From the moment Norway first wore his cross, whenever trouble came, his hand would leap to it. The other Nordics assumed it was for reassurance from his gods, old and new, its shape being both that of Thor’s hammer and of the crucifix.

Over the years they presumed it had become merely a habit. They were wrong. Then again, they usually were and Norway was unconcerned by it.

The cross made it through airport security, unlike Denmark’s axe and Finland’s guns. That was what really mattered, that the cross stayed with Norway wherever he went.

He was shopping in Oslo when the world found out, Denmark at his side, as they deliberated over pastries for dinner.

Their phones both buzzed with texts and calls, with warnings to get safely home. The warnings were mass texts from nations encountering problems and calls from Finland, Iceland and Sweden to see if they were safe.

The leak had come from the USA, which was little surprise. Newspapers and news channels had picked up on it and Norway’s phone buzzed with headline notifications. As did the phones of other shoppers, some of whom stopped to look.

With minimal conversation, the pair turned from the pastries to weave their way through the crowded shop out into the streets.

An hour ago they’d felt safe enough to wander out into Norway’s heart unarmed, happily prepared for an afternoon excursion. Now, Denmark’s heart lurched as he considered the threat of Norway’s people, a people who had once burned their homeland as a witch.

Denmark found Norway’s hand and held it tightly, as he began to panic, his head filling with memories of Norway’s near-dead body. He remembered the frost bitten infant he’d found in the snow, the bloated body washed ashore after a shipwreck, a battered corpse after a long raid. He’d seen Norway’s head roll as he was converted, forcefully, to Christianity. He remembered pulling his lover’s body from the stake he’d been tied to, as it stood blackened and charred, and Norway lay, battered and broken in the embers. He remembered the plague-ridden, disfigured form that had knocked on his door, seeking salvation. He remembered promising to protect the smaller man forever. He remembered Sweden taking Norway away, leaving him to raise their children and Iceland, alone. He remembered coming out without his axe, and he regretted everything.

Norway’s hand was on his cross, seemingly seeking protection as they hurried through the streets.

It was once they were halfway home that the trouble began. People began to recognise them, shouting and pointing. Some people were angry. More people began to gather, forming an impassible crowd around them. People were filming, people were calling, people were panicking. Denmark and Norway were unarmed. Denmark despaired.

Norway looked to be despairing too, as he sighed and pulled the cross from his head, abandoning the gods that had been forced upon him.

Denmark gripped his hand tighter and pulled him close, trying to shield him with his body from the agitated crowd. Norway looked up at Denmark and smiled. The smile said, ‘you’re an idiot’, and it was a smile that Denmark recognised from the moments Norway had single-handedly turned the tide in a battle.

Then Norway turned away from Denmark and gently blew over the cross, his hand closing around the handle of the Viking war hammer that appeared in his grasp, before looking up at Denmark smugly.

Turning his attention to the crowd, he ordered them to let him through, using his best military commander’s voice.

When the crowd appeared reluctant, he gave the hammer a lazy swing, twirling it gently as though it were a flower.

The crowd warily began to part and Norway dragged Denmark back through the streets to his house, keeping curious crowds at bay with his hammer and a glare.

Once the door was locked and their boots placed neatly by the door, Norway turned to the mirror and slid his cross back into his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is an idea that occurred to me from ideas that sprung from the Scandinavia and the world comic about Norway and crosses (which I definitely recommend).  
> It’s not a great piece of writing but who cares.


End file.
